


Once Bitten

by Skalidra



Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alpha Jason Todd, Alpha Slade Wilson, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Biting, Consent Issues, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Rape Fantasy, Restraints
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:15:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27259303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skalidra/pseuds/Skalidra
Summary: Slade's in Gotham, hunting his latest target, when the Red Hood gets in his way. It's not unusual to run into various Bats in Gotham, but usually it's the older two, not the black sheep. It hasn't cost him anything real, so he figures he'll throw the kid around some, give him some bruises, teach him that getting in the way has consequences.Then the scent hits him.
Relationships: Jason Todd/Slade Wilson
Comments: 28
Kudos: 344
Collections: SladeRobin Week 2020





	Once Bitten

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to _porn_. This is for Day 4 of SladeRobin Week, for the prompt 'Same Dynamic Omegaverse'. This is Alpha!Slade/Alpha!Jason, which was definitely a lot of fun to play with. XD Enjoy, have fun!
> 
> (For anyone that needs it, description of the content warnings is in the bottom note.)

The first moment Slade notices, it's with Red Hood pinned up against the stairwell of a roof in Gotham. The kid got in his way, ruined a shot he had at his current target. There's no time frame, lucky for the kid, so he's not planning on doing anything more than throwing him around a bit. Just a reminder not to get between him and his targets, maybe a threat of what he'll do next time, if the interference actually costs him anything.

Except he cracks Red Hood into the wall of the stairwell, and the kid grunts and grabs at his wrists but that's it. It's odd, but Slade doesn't think about it. He just takes Hood's head in one hand and slams it into the concrete, shattering the helmet all along one side.

Then the scent hits him.

He's wearing blockers, of course he is, but Slade has far better senses than most. The recycled air in that helmet, filtered but trapped, has a small, concentrated burst of the kid's scent. Alpha, strong and abrasive, and aroused.

Slade pauses. Hood reaches for a gun in his moment of distraction.

He's not _that_ distracted.

He slaps the gun away, grabs Hood by the arms as he tries to get away, and slams them into the concrete on either side of the kid's head. A snapped kick to the side of the kid's calf forces his legs wide enough for Slade to shove between them. There's a domino mask under the helmet, so the shattered part of the helmet doesn't let him see the kid's eye, but it does let him see the snarl. Flashing teeth, a growl deep enough that it would be threatening if Slade didn't just find it interesting.

There's another whiff of that scent, too. Just a thread.

"Get off me!" Hood snarls, jerking against his grip, twisting against the wall.

Slade leans in closer, studies the way Hood's snarl falters slightly. A theory spins its way around the back of his mind. Be entertaining if it was true. Potentially highly enjoyable, too. Lucky it's so easy to test.

He flexes his grip on Hood's arms and growls back, deep and threatening. He's not expecting Hood to flinch, not like a lesser hero, or whimper and submit like a civilian. But there are certain reactions that not even the Bat's collection of hyper-controlled brats can hide. Micro-expressions, twitches of body language. Instinctual fear in the face of a bigger, more dangerous predator.

Hood _shudders_.

It's not fear.

Slade grins, safe behind his mask. "Well isn't _that_ interesting," he says, watching the bit of the kid's face he can see.

Hood glares, but it's undercut by the little hint of a red flush at his cheek. "Get _off,_ Deathstroke."

Slade chuckles, tilting his head some. "Is that an invitation?"

The sputter is all performance. Slade wonders if the kid's even noticed that he's stopped struggling, on a conscious level. It's possible, he supposes, that Hood doesn't know that Slade's senses are enhanced enough to smell him. It's a lesser known part of his abilities; the strength and healing is advertised, but most people don't delve as deep as smell and sight. He'd think a Bat would know better. Or, maybe, the kid really thinks his neutralizers are powerful enough to hide everything. Over reliance on technology does tend to be a failing with heroes and criminals alike, and once these people have a solution they think will work, they so rarely keep trying to improve on it.

"You—! Let _go!_ "

He leans in towards Hood's neck, pressing closer with everything else as well as he takes a big, audible inhalation through his nose. It's no stronger here than what he got before, but the kid doesn't have to know that. And clearly he doesn't, given how he goes stiff and still, rigid in the face of his proximity, with his breath frozen in his chest.

"No," Slade says, making no effort to hide his amusement, "I don't think that's what you want. Why don't you tell me, Hood? Is it me getting you hot and bothered, or do you just like getting thrown around?"

Hood's next breath shakes, just a little. "I have no idea what you're talking about, you sick fuck."

Funnily enough, it's not the first Bat he's shoved through an internal denial of sexuality.

First things first, he's going to want his hands free for this.

Slade steps back and yanks the kid forward just enough to flip him and slam him back up against the wall, face-first this time. In the second it takes Hood to untangle the cross of his legs, he's taken each wrist and dragged them back, craning his arms at merciless enough angles that even Bat flexibility doesn't stop the kid from yelping. It only takes one hand to wrap around both forearms, pinning them there while he lifts the other hand and hooks his fingers at the broken edge of the helmet, using it as a lever to force the kid's head back a couple inches.

"You going to tell me how this comes off?" he asks, digging the tips of his glove in between the helmet and the kid's cheek. "Or am I going to have to rip it off you?"

Hood's breath catches. He almost takes too long to answer, but when Slade starts to pull and there's the faint crackle of abused plastic, he grunt and speaks. "There's a catch at the back." The kid swallows, his voice is shaking slightly. "Under the edge; slightly to the left."

Slade lets the helmet go, and follows the directions. Sure enough, there's a small latch that has the thing, with a crack and several more small pieces breaking off, come apart. He tosses it off to the side. He can see the very edge of the neutralizer patch where it doesn't quite blend into the skin over it. Probably imperceptible to a normal eye, but Slade doesn't have any issue picking it out. It fits close, though. He'd have to pull a glove off to get the fingernails you'd need to catch the edge.

Or…

He lowers his hand to the knife strapped to the kid's thigh, and draws it. Hood all but stops breathing.

"I'd suggest you stay very still," Slade warns, tapping the flat of the blade against the kid's hip before he lifts it. He carefully scrapes the edge over the kid's neck, levering the very corner of the patch up to get the steel between it and the skin. He flicks it down to the roof when it's off, and then shoves the kid's head over so he can get to the other side.

By the time he's got the other one stripped away, Hood's scent is leaking into the air around them. No, he wasn't imagining things. What before was a hint is now a defined flavor, arousal rich and spiced against the background of his scent. There's fear there too, but not near as much. Hood likes getting manhandled, it seems. How convenient.

He tosses the knife to the roof, somewhere near the kid's helmet. Slides his glove up through the kid's hair to get a grip, and shoves his face up against the concrete as he leans down. He makes sure it's on the side the kid's face is turned towards, so Hood can see it as he comes dangerously close to the uncovered scent gland up just below and behind his ear. Be more threatening if his teeth were showing, but he makes do. The kid jerks _hard_ at his growl.

What a nice, fresh burst of arousal there, too.

He laughs. "Want to try that denial again, kid? I'm not buying it."

Hood snarls, but it's rough and hitched. Withers in a gasp, when Slade crooks his arms up an inch further and presses his hips forward into the kid's ass. It's the cup beneath his suit the kid feels, not his cock, but it's the implication more than reality that's useful. He can feel the tremble in Hood's shoulders, see the flash of his teeth before they part on a groan. He thinks he'd like to see the look in the kid's eyes, too, but he has _some_ manners. When it suits him.

It's so early morning it's still mostly black. The roof belongs to an office building. If anyone's around, they shouldn't be stupid enough to interfere.

"I'm going to tie you up," he warns the kid, enjoying the little hitch of breath he gets for it, "and take you inside. I can do that with the shreds of your clothes, or I can do that with whichever little pocket of yours has the zip ties. Why don't you pick, Hood?"

"I—" Hood's teeth grit. His legs shift, which shifts his hips and ass in turn. Slade enjoys that, peripherally. "Right hip. Fourth one back. _Fuck_ you."

Slade hums, amused, and reaches down to flip the kid's jacket out of the way and count backwards along those little pouches starting at the belt buckle. He flips the top, and sure enough, zip ties. A whole little collection of them; as much as even a Gotham hero could possibly need in a night.

"Good boy."

The kid makes a strangled noise and kicks at him, but it's laughably easy to avoid. He takes one of the ties and hooks it around the kid's wrists, dragging it tight in a sharp yank. The kid's got gloves on; it won't hurt him unless Slade really forces it. It's not something he expects will hold Hood for more than a couple minutes, but he doesn't intend to rely on it. It only needs to last as long as it takes to drag the kid inside. Same for the one he hooks around the kid's elbows, pulling that one tight too and forcing his back into a shallow arch. It's no harsher than the grip he already had, but the kid groans all over again.

Satisfied that it'll hold long enough, he pulls out one last zip tie and quickly forces the kid's legs together, hobbling him at the ankle.

"Son of a bitch!" Hood swears, wobbling and tipping heavily forward against the wall of the stairwell to keep his feet.

Slade smirks, and takes the two steps to the side that it takes to get him to the door of the stairwell. It's nothing special. A basic keypad that it's easy enough to yank the front off of and short-circuit, disabling the security and unlocking it with a faint buzz. The kid's struggling when he looks back, working his arms in deliberate, careful rotations to try and get enough give in the zip ties to get his hands free. Well, that does answer the question he had of whether there was a knife close enough to the kid's hands for him to just grab it and cut the plastic. Not this time, apparently.

Can't have him thinking Slade's just going to let him get away with that, though.

"That's going to take a lot longer than you have," he comments. Hood jerks and refocuses on him, teeth already starting to bare. "Have to give you a swat if you keep doing that."

Entertainingly, after a second's hesitation and then a deliberate snarl, Hood starts pulling again.

Well, if the boy insists.

Hood's got no way to run that doesn't involve toppling over, so there's nothing he can do about Slade closing the distance. Similarly, the toss of his head does exactly nothing to stop Slade from getting a good fistful of his hair, pulling the kid's head into an arch to match his back. He shifts far enough to the side to give himself room to swing, eyes the line of the kid's back and the tight pull of tactical pants over the curve of his ass. Squirming hands are partially in the way, but all that means is that he has to aim a little lower. What a shame.

It's not the lovely, defined _crack_ of skin to skin, but he thinks that's made up for by the way Hood cries out when it lands, and the flex of thighs and ass as he goes up on his toes in reaction, drawing all that muscle tight. Slade admires it. Grayson's not the only looker in the Bat-family; Hood definitely makes a good showing for runner-up, if you're into his sort of style.

" _Fucker_ ," the kid breathes, full of a feeling that doesn't sound like anger.

Slade reaches down, palming Hood's ass and digging his fingers into that sensitive crease where it meets the thigh, where he nailed the kid. He gets a groan and a shudder in reward. "That's what I prefer, yeah. Now are you going to behave, Hood? Because I have no problem with doing everything I want to right here; I just figured you might want a little privacy."

"You fucking—"

He hits the kid again, ending the words in a startled, breathy cry instead of whatever choice insults he'd lined up.

He waits for the tension to ease off a bit before he says, "Much as I like your mouth, the only thing I want from it right now is a 'yes' or 'no.' So, yes…" He shifts his hand, forces it between the kid's thighs and up against his groin to the music of a sharp gasp. "Or no?"

The flex of the thighs around his hand is powerful, but no match for Slade's kind of strength. Certainly not enough to hurt him, or force him to let go before he wants to, and Hood seems to understand that after a moment. There's a quiver of muscle, and a small breath in confirms that the kid _reeks_. Slade has to bite down on an aroused rumble himself. Whatever fight the kid's having with himself — if it's all not just part of the fantasy, pretending to resist— his body has no similar compunctions with what's going on. Given that, Slade's inclined to think that Hood leans more towards other alphas regardless; how lucky for him.

He lets him have his little inner struggle. Slade has more than enough patience to wait out one brat, and that's all he has to do. Wait.

The kid breathes in — sharp and sudden, like he's just remembering he needs to breathe — twice more before he finally says, "Yes."

Slade gives a light squeeze before he lets go, just enough to make the kid twitch. "Good choice."

A step back gives him room to maneuver, and it's only the work of a moment to grab and heft the kid, tossing him over a shoulder. There's a gasp and a strangled yelp. Slade heads for the door.

Now that it's unlocked, it's easy enough to shoulder inside. It feeds into the top of a stairwell, lit with basic fluorescence. His steps echo as he descends the first circle of stairs, down to where the first door leads out into the top floor of the building. No lock there, just a push-bar that he gets with a hip, shoving inside. Dark corridors, everything closed up. As expected. Possible there's security, but all he has to do is keep an eye out. He'll make sure the kid's face isn't caught on camera; anything else is Hood's problem, not his.

The first door down the corridor is locked, until he twists his hand and it's not, the lock giving way with a _crunch_ and letting him step inside, no issue. Basic executive office. Large desk, couch-and-chairs meeting area to the side, window view of the city, and not a camera in sight. Wouldn't want to be watched at work, after all. It works for his purposes.

He drops the kid on the couch. Immediately, the kid wiggles around to be lying face up, glaring up at him as he shuts the door, more or less, anyway. It doesn't matter; he'll hear anyone approaching long before they get close enough to be a threat.

"There we go," Slade says, moving back across the room to stand over the kid. "Better, don't you think?"

The kid glares a little harder. His jaw works, but he doesn't actually say anything; maybe he's concerned that Slade might still be enforcing his 'only yes or no' rule, or he's just erring on the side of caution. It doesn't matter to him.

He settles a knee to the side of the kid, leaning down and reaching for the mask. Hood snarls, jerks away, but he doesn’t have much of anywhere to go and he’s not fast enough, regardless. A scrape of his glove, pinch and pull, gets hold of the mask and tugs it off his face. Big blue-green eyes look up at him, pupils dilated some, as if Slade needed another confirmation that the kid's into this. There's just a bit of a sharp edge there, wariness or maybe panic, but Slade doesn't pay it much mind. They're all so sensitive about the masks coming off, as if he doesn't know who Hood is under that little strip of cover.

"Relax, Hood. Who you are doesn't matter to me." He lifts a hand and strips off his own hood, dropping it to the floor and shaking his head to let his hair settle. He leans down, bracing his hand on the couch next to the kid's head, holding his gaze. "And for the record? I've known for a long time."

Jason Todd. Officially dead, not so officially alive again. Once you've got Grayson figured, the rest aren't too hard to slot into place. Context clues; he can make good guesses for most of them, even if he doesn't specifically have proof. Might be useful someday, but he can't say he really cares; selling them out wouldn't benefit him, and he doesn't do things that don't benefit him. A one-time paycheck isn't worth the negatives, far as he's concerned. Not least of which would be ruining any opportunity to have the kid lying under him, pretty eyes and a pretty mouth, thighs he wants his hands on and a neck he'd like to sink his teeth into.

Slade finds himself giving a low rumble at the thought, lowering a hand to wrap it around the side of the kid's neck, press his thumb in under the angle of a jaw and feel the fast beat of his pulse. Hood shudders, and Slade might be eyeing his neck but that doesn't mean he misses the flex of the kid's thighs and how his knees part. He's still tied at the ankle, but he's pretty sure if the kid hadn't been those legs would have come apart and invited him right between them.

He strokes the kid's throat with his thumb, down to where the high collar of his body armor starts. There's a tiny, hidden catch he can see at the front, where the zipper must start. How handy; would have been a shame if it opened at the back. He might not be able to completely strip the kid with his hands bound, but he can get at some of that skin, at least.

"Been fucked before?" he asks, as he gets his fingers on the catch and unhooks it. Sure enough, there's the zipper.

Hood's practically panting, chest heaving under his touch as he pulls apart the top layer. There's a white shirt beneath, thin and clinging to the muscle underneath. "No."

Not happening tonight either, then. That's fine. Slade's got plenty of ways to use a pretty boy to get off, even without the more basic forms sex takes, and there's no way an inexperienced alpha takes him on first try. Slade doesn't do sadism like that. He'll bruise and bite, and he definitely gets off on bruising up a pretty ass, but he draws his personal line at pleasure-ruining injury. Fucking another alpha without the appropriate investment of time is a sure way to do that.

"You'll enjoy it," he rumbles, sliding his hand up the kid's chest to drag the shirt up, reveal the skin of his torso and bunch the cloth up towards his armpits. "Stretch you out, get you begging for it…” He flashes a grin, bending down over Hood. "Nothing prettier than a handsome alpha boy spread around my knot."

The kid trembles. The thighs flex again, hips canting just slightly upwards. Yeah, kid likes that idea. Almost a shame that it's not going to happen. (Next time.)

Slade strokes down the center of the kid's chest, admiring the pale, defined muscle there as it clenches tight under the touch of his glove, then releases in a shudder. He gets to the belt, pauses there with his fingers resting at the skin just above it. There's the start of a light trail of hair there, a dusting of black leading downwards and underneath the pants. He'd love to see the rest. It would be easier if the kid cooperated, but he's alright with wrestling the kid over, too. He doesn't mind playing the 'big bad,' if that's the fantasy the kid is getting off on.

He leans down over the kid, presses a little harder at the thumb he has on his neck, forcing it to bend back an inch. It means more now, with the armor parted and his throat open and vulnerable as Slade layers over him. "If I untie your legs, are you going to behave, kid?"

Hood stares up at him, pulse hammering under his thumb, breathing hard and fast. He's not quite glaring, not quite giving. Caught between that arousal, and the little flickers of his teeth as he teeters on that edge of defiance. Just needs a little push.

Slade pulls his lips back to bare just a little of his own teeth, growling deep in his chest. The kid jerks, shudders. And in a wave, _gives_. A rippling from head downwards, his neck easing into the forced arch without being pressured, chest pressing upwards a touch, hips pressing up as well, into the light touch just above his belt. His brow's still knit, his mouth open as he pants as if Slade's put him through something exhausting, but the faint tremble of his breath is tell enough.

Slade closes the last few inches, lowering his teeth to graze over the arch of the kid's throat, threaten — and tease — the chance of a bite as he gives a low, approving rumble. "Good boy," he praises, unbuckling the kid's belt as he carefully fits his teeth over the front of his throat.

Hood jerks again, but it's barely more than a reflexive twitch, and the sound that vibrates out of his throat is a low, strangled moan. Slade can feel it between his teeth.

Beneath the belt, the zipper and clasp of the pants comes undone easy enough. Slade pushes his hand down under the band of the briefs beneath, under the protective cup covering the kid's groin, and finally reaches the cock beneath. It's no surprise that he finds it hard, already pressing into the cup with a pressure that was probably uncomfortable. Well, he can help with that.

He squeezes the length of the cock — decent size, at first feel — and the kid grunts, arching into his touch, pressing up against his teeth.

It almost makes Slade want to laugh. He settles for feeding his satisfied amusement into a slightly harder bite. Not many alphas push _into_ bites, but Hood comes through brilliantly, choking out an aroused sound and doing just that. Slade's had partners that loved the feel of submission bites, but they're few and far between, and it tends towards omegas, not alphas. Most times, instinct has far too strong of a grip for an alpha to enjoy that kind of threat.

He needs to flip the kid over for next steps, but that means having to let go of him, and he finds himself reluctant. He likes having the kid's neck in his teeth, and once he flips the kid over he's going to lose access to all that skin on his chest. Be a shame to do that when he hasn't even played with it yet.

He can delay a bit. What's the rush?

Slade pulls his hand free from the kid's briefs, but only so he can hook his fingers over the edge and pull them and the pants down. Over the kid's hips, and his ass when it flexes upwards to help. He shoves it all down to mid-thigh, then lifts his hand back up to grip the kid's hip and pin it down with easy pressure. He growls softly, digging his teeth in enough to make sure he leaves a mark. Hood trembles, and Slade lets go, pushing up and admiring the blatant half-circle marks of teeth left behind, front and center at the kid's throat. That'll linger for a bit.

Satisfied with that, he flattens Hood's legs out with a shove and climbs over them, shifting down to frame the kid's waist with his hands, pinning his hips down with an easy press of his palms. There's only the moonlight and filtered light of the city coming through the window to see by, but that's not a problem for Slade. His vision's good enough to see the hard jut of the kid's cock, nicely proportioned to his size, thick. No one is going to be disappointed by that.

He ignores it for the moment, ignores how the hips are flexing against his hands, and drops his mouth to the kid's chest instead. Hood squirms and gives a choked grunt when Slade bites into the skin just above the spread of his right hand, low on the kid's side, over the tender skin of his waist. Not hard enough to break skin, but rolling it between his teeth, sucking what's sure to be a lurid bruise to the surface. Hood can't seem to stay still, and it gets worse when Slade lets go and goes for another spot, higher on his ribs.

The breathy, sharp cry the kid gives at the third bite — on a pectoral, around the tender peak of his nipple — makes Slade rumble out a growl on reflex, biting a little harder than he means to. He tastes the sharp tang of blood, but when he lets go the kid jerks and his hips press up _hard_. Slade has to shift his grip, pin him down more firmly, before he can look at the bite. There's the faintest trace of blood; nothing serious, nothing dangerous. It'll certainly leave a lasting mark. A very nice mark, actually.

He hums, sliding one hand up to brush his thumb under the edge of the bite. "Isn't that pretty?"

Hood twists under his hand, and when Slade looks up at his face there's the tiny glint of wetness at the corners of his eyes. His lips are parted though, expression twisted in pleasure. And he gasps a cut-off, "I— _Fuck_."

Slade chuckles, pressing his thumb into the bite itself just to watch the kid squirm and give another quiet cry. "Yeah, kid, we're getting to that."

He's sure he could spend another ten minutes — at least — just marking the kid up, but he'll be nice. He's satisfied enough with what he's already left, and he'll leave more before they're done. Plenty more. He eases his grip, and lifts up high enough on his knees that he can grab the kid and flip him over, underneath him. Hood grunts at his face suddenly being in the cushion, wiggling. Slade admires the back-and-forth shift of his ass as he lifts his hands and pulls apart the top half of the Ikon suit, dragging it off his arms and leaving it to hang at his waist. It'll have to come off for him to fuck the kid anyway, and he'd be a fool to do this without getting his hands on Hood. Be a shame not to grab that ass with his actual fingers at least once.

He wraps his fingers around the kid's hips, dragging him up to a kneel with his back still in that forced arch, thanks to the bound arms. Even better, though, when he shifts his hands just enough to pull the kid's cheeks open, too. He rumbles his appreciation, eyeing the small, tight clench of the kid's asshole.

Most definitely not happening tonight.

He tugs the kid back against his crotch as he leans forward and over his back. "I happen to know you Bats keep lube with you," he says. The kid inhales. "For all those _squeaky doors_ , of course. Which pocket? Tell me where you've got a knife, too."

Hood only voices about half a second of a whine before he strangles it. Still, it's enough to make Slade's cock twitch, still trapped like it is. "Knife—” The kid's voice is rough and husky, and he starts again. "Knife's in jacket. Front inner pocket, left side."

"Mmhm." He squeezes the kid's hips, rubs his thumbs into the swell of his cheeks in little circles. "And?"

Hood's hands flex, his ass does too, and Slade resists the urge to tug it more firmly back against himself. He can't feel all that much but pressure, through the Ikon suit, but that's still tempting. "Belt," he gasps. "Right at the back."

Slade pats the kid's hip, and goes for the mentioned places. Inside the jacket is a switchblade, and he flicks it open and cut the zip tie around the kid's elbows — easing the stretch, leaving his wrists bound — before twisting and leaning back to do the same for his ankles. There's a sharp breath of relief from the kid, nearly covering the click as Slade opens the pouch at the very back of the belt to find several small packets of good quality, silicone lube. It's got a generic name, but it's still unmistakable.

He tosses the knife to the ground and pushes the kid slightly forward so he has the room to tug the suit down over his hips, freeing his cock with a quiet breath of satisfaction. Hood shudders when he tears the packet, obviously recognizing the sound, even if he can't see it at his angle.

The gasp of surprise when he squirts the packet right into the crack between the kid's upper thighs instead of on his ass is entertaining, as is the way he immediately shifts on his knees, thighs sliding together with a wet _schlick_ of sound. He presses his knees in against the kid's, forces those thighs back together as he discards the packet and wraps his fingers around the outside of the kid's thighs. It only takes a moment to line his cock up, and press forward into the tight, hot press of the kid's legs.

Hood clenches in reaction to the sensation, and Slade nearly groans at the pressure, pushing forward till his hips settle against the kid's ass. Yes, the kid has excellent thighs. No loss here. "What—?"

Slade chuckles, rocking back and forth a couple inches. The lube's still slightly cool, but it's warming as it stays between the kid's thighs, slicking all the skin there and making it an easy slide to fuck between them. "You're too tight to take me, kid. I'll fuck you properly some other night."

He reaches forward and grabs the kid by the back of the jacket, pulling him up to a precarious kneel before he wraps his arm around his chest to keep him up. The kid shudders, arms twisting against his chest. Now, looking down over his shoulder, Slade can see where his cock emerges from between the kid's thighs, sliding up along the kid's balls and the root of his own cock. He rocks, and watches it slide, watches the kid's cock twitch as he gives a muffled groan.

Slade lowers his teeth to the kid's ear, grazing over the edges, biting lightly at the lobe. Here, the kid's scent practically burns his nose on every inhalation. Thick, rich, overwhelmingly aroused. "This'll do just fine."

He gives a testing thrust, slides nice and smooth and gets a tightening of the kid's thighs around him on the push back in, tensing and relaxing. Almost feels like he really is inside the kid, except for the cool brush of air against the head of his cock on the other side. He tightens his grip on the kid's thigh, flattens his other palm against a pec, and starts up a rhythm. Slow, at first, then faster as he settles into the right amount of movement. The kid presses into him, squirms and pants, giving moans and half bitten-off swears in turn. Slade sucks a bruise into the kid's earlobe, then another on the high edge of his jaw, growling lightly into his ear just to feel the kid shudder.

What a treat the kid is. Alpha, into at least some level of pain, likes it rough, likes to be restrained… Slade muffles his groan by biting into the side of the kid's neck, imagining what Hood would look like bent over, stretching open to let him in. It'd take a lot of work, and time, but he could do it. He's fucked smaller alphas than Hood, and it will certainly help that the kid likes a little sting. A knot the size of his always aches some; most don't mind when they're that far in, but he'd lay bets the kid will get off on it, judging by how he's getting off on the bites.

He's got patience, he can outlast just about anyone if he puts his mind to it, but he doesn't see the need. He fucks the kid hard and with an eye for his own pleasure, digging his fingers into the thigh they're wrapped around hard enough there's a good chance it'll bruise, keeping the bite on the kid's neck to hold him still and just a little hazed. Not too hazed, though. Not enough he misses out on the sounds the kid is making, or how his arms flex and twist, pulling against the zip tie restraining them.

Be a shame not to appreciate the kid's reactions.

Under his palm, he can feel the tight peak of one of Hood's nipples, rubbed into hardness from the shifting of his chest. Slade finally eases his jaw, pulling his teeth off the kid's neck before he pinches the nipple between his fingers. The kid jerks like he's been electrocuted, hitches out a moan as Slade chuckles, rolling the bud between his fingers. Sensitive, apparently. That's always nice.

"Keep your thighs tight," he orders, growling it right into the kid's ear and following it up with a sharp nip to the cartilage.

When he feels the kid's legs tighten — slightly delayed, order taking a moment to penetrate the haze — he shifts the grip on his hip to reach inwards and wrap it around Hood's cock. Immediately his hips buck into it. Slade strokes his hand downwards, finding the slightly swollen lump of the kid's knot at the base, hot and throbbing under his fingertips. Kid's not far from coming. Good, neither is he.

Hood cries out when he squeezes down on it, the press of his thighs becoming near painfully crushing for a moment. Slade grunts, forcing his cock through and riding the edge of pain forwards as he bares his teeth against the skin of the kid's neck. Another rhythmic squeeze, a third, and Hood's knot swells against his palm as the kid comes with a shout.

Slade snarls, thrusts a dozen more times in the clenching heat of the kid's thighs, and sinks his teeth into the back of Hood's neck as he allows himself to follow. The kid jerks and actually whines slightly, maybe at the bite, maybe at the splash of come over his balls and cock, where he's shoved up against him.

He rides out the first wave with small rocks, barely pulling back at all on each one, more just grinding against the kid's ass on every press. His jaw relaxes, but he keeps his teeth resting over the bite, a reminder more than any kind of hold.

When the intensity eases into slow, rolling pulses, Slade hums against the kid's throat and softens his touch. He keeps the firm wrap of his hand around the knot, but gentles the bite of his teeth to suck bruises, instead. First over the back of the kid's neck, listening to him pant, then lower. It's a shame that the kid's shirt is still on — he'd love to mark up his shoulders, too — but it's a little late to be ripping it off. He contents himself with the expanse of the kid's neck, instead, covering it in little irregular patches of reddened, darkening skin. Hood shivers through it, head falling to rest back against his shoulder after a couple minutes.

Hood's knot goes down first. Easing till the kid's cock finally starts to go soft, and Slade lets it follow its own natural droop downwards. His hand's covered in a mixture of fluids, his and the kid's both, and for a few moments he considers making the kid clean it off. He's just relaxed enough, in the last stages of his knot, that he decides not to. No need to ramp things up again. Not this time.

Instead, he wipes it off on a mainly clean patch of the kid's side, and only gets a twitch and an inhalation in response. Nothing that could be construed as protest.

Kid's going to smell like him for days.

It's not that long after that his own cock starts to soften. He leaves a parting press of lips and teeth to the nape of the kid's neck, and then grips the kid's hip in one hand and presses into the back of a shoulder with the other. Hood doesn't fight. He bends at the waist, supported by Slade's grip till his head presses to the couch, back where he was to begin with. It's a good look.

He pulls free of the kid's thighs, groaning in satiated enjoyment of the slide, wet as any omega thanks to the lubricant, plus both their releases. He spends the last couple moments of slight hardness with a rock up between the kid's cheeks, leaving smears of wetness in his wake before he pulls away and sits back on his heels.

"Not bad, kid," he rumbles, stroking a hand up the seam of the kid's thighs. The kid squirms, but only weakly.

Slade chuckles and climbs off the couch, the satisfied looseness of his muscles familiar but still just as enjoyable as it always is. He takes his time tugging his suit back on, keeping his eye on the kid as he does to watch him shift and get partially onto his side, head turning to watch him. Even in the darkness, he can still see the half-lidded eyes, the wet part of a mouth as the kid wets his lips.

He finishes securing the suit, and then makes his way over to the kid, sinking down to a knee and reaching out to wrap his hand around the back of the kid's skull, lean down close to him.

"Next time," he promises, "I'm going to get you stripped all the way down. Take my time, figure out what makes you beg. And then I'm going to fuck you, and you're going to take it. Every inch."

Pupils big and black in the dark, the kid swallows, and exhales in a shuddering breath, and doesn't say anything. But his tongue wets his lips again and his heartbeat spikes, and Slade doesn't see a thing in his face that says the kid is against what he's said.

He slides his fingers free, scraping the pad of his gloved thumb over the kid's jaw and down just far enough to graze over his lips. He smirks. "That's a good boy."

He swipes his hood from the floor as he gets up, heading the direction of the door in no real rush. The switchblade's on the floor, and the kid's only bound at the wrist anyway; there's no Bat that couldn't get out of something like that in twenty seconds flat. He'll be fine. Just wet and messy, all the way home. Poor kid.

Over his shoulder, Slade tosses a casual, "See you around, Hood."

It takes him four more hours, crouched and hiding on Gotham's rooftops, to get another decent shot at his target. Early morning riser. Bad luck for her.

He thinks, as he packs away his rifle and heads out, that the delay was entirely worth it.

* * *

Jason hisses in a slow breath, palming his cock as he presses the fingers of his other hand into the still-lurid mark bruised over his ribs. Very roughly circular, sore to the touch and aching, but with no real flash of pain from deeper bruising like a punch would have given him. A hickey. A goddamn _hickey_. And he hasn't been able to keep his hands off it, or off the other ones. One lower towards his hip, a series of very faint punctures unmistakable as anything but a bite at his pec, and _Christ_ his fucking _neck_.

He hasn't been able to go fucking anywhere the last couple days without slathering his whole neck in make-up, or wearing the most blatantly obvious kinds of turtlenecks and even that doesn't cover everything.

Son of a bitch.

But here he fucking is, jacking off with his fingers pressing against the bruises. Aching and hot and with nothing but the sense-memory of Deathstroke's growls vibrating against his throat, dipping even lower to rumble _'Good boy'_ against his skin, into his _bones_.

His cock twitches, sharp and obvious and he can't even pretend it's because of anything but the memory of that voice. Fuck, how did he get himself into this?

Oh yeah, he got turned on getting tossed around a roof like he was all of a hundred pounds again, and then tripped right into letting Slade fucking Wilson turn his neck into a crime scene and get as close to fucking him as anyone ever has in some random CEO's office, in the middle of the night. (And god, it was fucking good. Every second was good. The bruises and the bites and the hard, wet press of Slade rutting between his thighs, holding him with inescapably powerful hands.)

Jason groans, pressing his head back into the pillow and feeling the little aching twinge of his neck as he twists it. The sensation zings right down between his legs. His cock hardens a little more against the press of his palm; not quite fully hard, but getting there.

There's a sharp knock on his door.

He flinches and swears. Hurriedly, he drags his sweats back up and his shirt down, closing his eyes and trying to will away the heat of his erection as he heads for the door. It better not be Dick. (Shit, he hopes to god it's not Dick because then he's going to have to explain his neck and he's not looking forward to _that_ conversation.)

He listens for a moment, then takes a glance through the peephole. No one there, but when he leans up on his toes to get just that last tiny bit of vision downwards, he can see the edge of a brown box.

He frowns. He hasn't… ordered anything, far as he remembers. Only some of the Bats even know about this safehouse. And Roy. Roy might have sent him something without warning; that sounds like him.

…

Maybe it's supposed to be for one of his neighbors. (Or, maybe this is the latest Gotham villain bullshit and he's about to get nailed in the face with something.)

Fuck it.

He unlocks his door and opens it, eyeing the box left in the corridor. Looks like a normal shipping box. Rectangular, a bit on the flat side. No brand names on the outside of it, just a shipping label slapped somewhat crookedly on top.

He nudges it once with his toe. Nothing happens. No weird sounds, no reaction, no movement. Okay. Probably safe-ish.

Jason picks up the box a little gingerly, still sort of expecting something to explode in his face as he steps back inside his apartment, eyeing the label. That's his address, all right. That's the alias he's renting under, too. That definitely all looks like this is supposed to be for him, whatever the fuck it is. He has to squint a little to read the little return address in the corner, tiny as it is.

‘ _Knots and Crosses_.'

What the hell kind of company is that? Did someone send him a board game, or something?

He takes it to his kitchen table, carefully splitting open the tape with one of his knives and opening it up. Hints of a black-and-red box peek up at him through the wrap of some white packing paper, mostly obscured. He sets the knife aside and pries the whole thing out, shoving the shipping box aside so he can tear the paper open and get it out of the way. The box has some weight to it, weirdly lopsided, and at first glance it looks like the kind of shiny-cardboard of a toy box or something.

Jason rips the paper away, gets his first look at the front of the box, and practically flings it to the table in startled reaction.

' _ANAL KNOT TRAINING_ ' is plastered over the top edge, in big, italicized red lettering. But the front is clear plastic, and _inside_ …

"What the _fuck?_ " he doesn't-quite-shout, staring at the row of deep black, clearly silicone _dildos_ laid out in a row inside, next to a short, fat bottle of _something_. The first one's slim as his finger, but the last's big and thick and has a very obvious fake knot at the bottom of it, swelling big and wide at the base.

Jesus Christ, what the fuck, what is this _doing_ here?

He has to breathe out, flex his hands a couple times, before he can bring himself to touch it again. He gets the rest of the paper off, and when he flips the box over — there's a whole fucking description on the back oh _god_ — finds a note taped to it. A small, yellow post-it note.

'Practice for next time,' it says in neat, slightly-slanted writing, and that clicks in his brain at the exact same time as he sees the curved 'S' signed at the bottom.

His cheeks _burn_.

That— That fucking arrogant, son of a bitch, _jackass._

Jason tears the note off and scrunches it into a tiny, vengeful ball, throwing it in the empty box. How dare he just— just fucking _send_ this.

The package stares up at him. Lurid, blatant, description a flowery, useless mess of words talking about pleasure and _satisfaction_ and _intimacy,_ like this is chocolate and roses and not a bunch of fake silicone dicks with the express purpose of—

Of…

He swallows.

There's a traitorous twitch of his cock.

God _fucking_ damnit.

**Author's Note:**

> [You can find my Tumblr here!](http://skalidra.tumblr.com/)
> 
> (Content tags explanation: Slade discovers Jason is aroused during a fight and presses that to push him into sex. He thinks Jason is attracted and enjoys being manhandled/the appearance of being 'forced' (and is right), but he does not seek or get confirmation of that. Jason does not verbally consent at any point, but he is very into things.)


End file.
